Embers
by Knight of Kesem
Summary: "Bearer of the Curse. Are you the Next Monarch, or merely a Pawn of Fate?" Shirou fell into another world the day of the New Fuyuki Fire. On his return, he met a dying man full of regret, sorrow, and ideals so unrealistic it'd seem laughable to uphold them. However, with a will of steel and strength of mountains, Shirou sets out to become what Kiritsugu could never be: A true Hero.
1. Clash of Spears

**AN: This fanfiction takes elements from Fate/Stay Night and Dark Souls, specifically Dark Souls 2, and combines them. I do not consider myself an expert in either of these pieces of fiction, so corrections are welcome. No flames please!**

**Please note that Shirou is extremely perceptive for a child his age. And if you just can't understand Dark Souls lore, skip the part where I try to explain the gist of it. It really isn't overtly important to the story...as of now.**

**Otani is a name I just chose to be Shirou's birthname. He still inherits the Emiya title though...**

**DISCLAIMER: The Fate/Stay Night Franchise belongs exclusively to Type-Moon, while the Dark Souls Franchise belongs exclusively to From Software. I do not own any elements from either franchise that have been incorporated in my fanfiction.**

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><p><em>"The greatest test of courage on Earth is to bear defeat without losing heart."<em>

_-Robert Green Ingersoil_

**EMBERS**

Prologue: The Crone

_In the Age of Ancients,_

_The World was Unformed,_

_Shrouded by Fog._

_A Land of Grey Crags,_

_Archtrees,_

_And the Everlasting Dragons._

_But then,_

_There was Fire._

_And with Fire,_

_Came Disparity.  
><em>

_Heat and Cold,_

_Life and Death,_

_And of course:_

_Light and Dark._

_Then, __From the Dark,_

_They Came._

_And Found the Souls of Lords,_

_Within the Flame._

_Nito: the First of the Dead._

_The Witch of Izalith,_

_And her Daughters of Chaos._

_Gwyn: the Lord of Sunlight,_

_And his Faithful Knights._

_And the Furtive Pygmy_

_So Easily Forgotten._

_-The Birth Legend of Anor Londo, the City of the Gods_

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><p>Catharsis.<p>

As he stumbled through the licking flames, he could no longer feel. The screams and cries of the anguished did not reach his youthful ears, nor did his feet feel the burnt and putrid flesh as they trod upon body after body, nor did his dispassionate eyes register the lovers holding one in another in fiery death and the mother clutching her child in a protective embrace.

He could no longer remember.

The faces of people he once knew slip away, incandescent, like leaves floating away upon a raging river of time, ripped brutally from his grasp, never to return. Memories of a kind-faced woman, a stern yet smiling man, a young girl with a face so exuberant, so innocent that it hurt to look at. Of a shining sun, and dewed sweet-smelling grass, of a house beside a lake. Who were they? What was this place?

Every step he took, he lost a part of himself. Every breath of smokey, hot air he took in, he shred a piece of his own humanity.

The first that left was Selflessness, lost when he refused to take the hand of a child, not two years younger than he himself, at the risk of being trapped beneath the rubble.

Then Empathy, when he glanced at the dying callously, ignoring pleas for water, help, or even a quick death.

Then Morality, when he stepped on the bodies, some still alive, using them as pedestals to reach safer ground.

Fear, when he gazed upon the inhuman, burnt faces of the corpses as flame consumed flesh.

Anger, when he saw the thugs and criminals run rampant throughout the flames, looting the dead bodies, and committing acts so vile that a successful conviction would mean life in prison and even death.

On and on it went, until he was stripped bare of everything that had originally formulated his identity, everything that defined humanity, except for a single entity: Hope.

But as the boy struggled out of the conflagration that had robbed him of everything: his home, his family, and his identity, he could feel the last vestiges of Hope begin to fade. Alas, he had made it out from the certain death that awaited him had he remained in the hellish city, only to limp into a cold and uncaring world by the shore of the lake. Glancing back, he could make out a small house, the one that seemed to plague his mind, a tantalizing reminder of something vastly important, yet forgotten.

Suddenly, he jerked forward, coughing violently. A splotch of blood, blood so crimson its disparity with the cold white light above could not be greater, was spat out with impunity into the sand. The boy fell forward, collapsing on his knees, the adrenaline that strengthened and propelled him past the deadly flames fading away. He shivered as the freezing wind bit harshly at his exposed skin, subsequently glaring at the harsh, unfeeling light of the stars that shone down upon him.

A sudden, sharp pain in his head made him cry out, the images of a crumbling kingdom, a fallen king with empty eyes, a cold and callous queen, an empty throne shaped oddly like a kiln filling his broken mind.

What was this?

The visages were familiar; he knew that as much. He could faintly remember them on the very edge of his psyche, haunting him, as if they were murky dreams whose details remained just out of reach.

"Chilly today, isn't it, boy?" a rough, grating voice inquired.

He quickly turned towards the source of the voice, arms raised in a pathetic attempt to ward off the threat, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Look at me, child," the voice said again, a bit softer, in a vain attempt to soothe rather than startle the boy.

Mustering the remnants of his courage, the boy turned his head towards the mysterious person, eyes peeking over his arms.

In front of him was an old, no, _ancient_ woman, with deep wrinkles carved into her face. Her hair was as grey, as grey as the smog that floated insidiously in the air around Fuyuki City's manufacturing areas. Thin, nigh-transparent lips were curved slightly upwards, leading to a crooked, bent nose and, above that, soulless eyes filled with amused, yet cynical mirth.

She turned back towards the lake, gazing at the skyscrapers that littered the skyline. "So much pride, humans have. Always looking for ways to challenge the laws of fate and nature, foolishly believing they exceed the power of the gods themselves. This world is no different than the one that plagues your mind, boy, am I right?"

The boy stumbled backwards, mouth open in shock. He made no effort to hide the fear in his eyes.

The old crone smirked. "You've seen it before, haven't you, in a dream? A murky, forgotten land, a ruined kingdom ravaged by war and disease?"

He flinched, a cold pit of terror forming in his stomach. How had she known?

"A place where souls may mend your...ailing mind," the haggard woman continued, smirking. The small jibe at the boy's apparent loss of humanity, the traits that separated humans from animals, did not go unnoticed by either party.

"You will lose everything...Once branded by the Dark. The symbol of the curse...An augur of Darkness."

To the boy's abject horror, he could see, no, he could _feel_ a dark rot set upon the palm his right hand, carving into the skin a circle around which a faint orange light glowed, not unlike a dying flame.

"Your past, your future. Your very light...None will have meaning, and you won't even care. By then, you'll be something...other than human. A thing that feeds on souls. A Hollow."

Hollow. That word frightened him for some reason. Hollow...

"Long ago, in a walled-off land far, far away, a great king built a great kingdom. I believe they called it...Drangleic. Perhaps you're familiar...No, how could you be? But nevermind. One day, soon, you will stand before its decrepit gate, without really knowing why..."

The crone's heavily wrinkled features twisted, her pale, thin lips opening upwards to reveal rotting, yellowed teeth.

Suddenly, the water of the lake in front of him erupted, the murky waters swirling and churning violently. The boy stumbled backwards, startled by the sudden, violent animation of the water. He could only watch in fear, and, oddly, awe, as haunted beings of darkness thrashed about, flying this way and that, whispering promises of knowledge, of power, of a cure for their shared Curse.

"Like a moth drawn to a flame, your wings will burn in anguish, time after time."

The swirling vortex, as black as night, stared up at him, beckoning him, drawing him inside. A seductive promise of power, of regaining purpose, of a cure for his troubled mind.

"For that is your fate, the fate of the cursed...Shirou Otani."

The boy blankly stared at he turbulent waters below him, shivering slightly as the vicious wind-chill bit past his thin rags and deep into his body.

His first thought was to run. The seven year old was, frankly, afraid of the old woman, afraid of the swirling pool of darkness that whipped around below him. Hadn't the stern yet kind man and beautiful woman in the vestiges of his memories told him once to never trust those he had just met? The boy was cold, scared, and tired, and just wanted to huddle up and sleep and forget the atrocities that he had seen and committed that night.

But the thought tempted him. A chance for redemption, to save the ones that he could not, to rid himself of his demons, by which he'd undoubtedly be haunted by forever if he did not take this chance, and reclaim his humanity. But could it ever be achieved? The crone's words were alluring, prophetic in nature, vague and without promises. Attractive, but ultimately useless.

While his rational side screamed at him to run, to find someplace safe and warm, to escape, his irrational side whispered to him to take it, and be rid of his sickness.

If his rational side had won that night, Shirou Otani would have run, he would have slowly descended into insanity, and the odd mark on his right hand later studied by top medical researchers, both nonmagical and magical.

However, throughout the course of neural development, rationality is unfortunately the last trait to be fully developed, when the prefrontal cortex finishes its myelination process in the early 20s.

Before the full development of the prefrontal cortex, the brain must rely on another neural structure for decision-making. This structure is the amygdala, situated deep in the most ancient core of the human brain, part of the limbic system. The amygdala formulates emotional responses to stimuli, and so therefore, people whose brains rely on the amygdala for decision-making often swing in favor of a decision influenced by personal opinion and emotion.

That night, only the Legendary Shirou Otani, better known as Shirou Emiya, the Magus whose name inspired fear and awe for over a millennium after he lived, the one who had at least a full chapter dedicated to him in every Magus History Textbook, was to exist.

And so, giving into irrationality, the boy, arms spread like an eagle's wings, leaned forward, plunging into the abyss below. The cruel wind whipped around his ears, the soft whispers of panacea suddenly shifting into violent shrieks of dolor. Deeper and deeper he fell, until the faint light of the uncaring stars and the blood moon could no longer reach him, so far gone into the depths of insanity and despair.

The dark waters swallowed him whole. And then suddenly...

Impact. Current. Fight. Drown. Struggle.

Then...

Dark.

Far, far above, a blood-red moon shone brilliantly, not to appear again for six years.

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><p><em>"Truth is everybody is gonna hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for."<em>

_-Bob Marley_

**EMBERS**

Chapter 1: The Clash of Spears

_10 years later..._

Shirou Emiya was anything but normal, by anyone's standards.

To the regular high school student, he wasn't normal. His exceptionally high grades, courteous demeanor, diligent work ethic, and genuine willingness to help anyone with pretty much everything was enough to prove that.

To the archery club members, he wasn't normal. He could hit the dead center every single time from a distance of over a hundred meters, splitting each arrow with the next. When asked about his unnatural skill, he merely waved his hand and mentioned something about having "lots of practice."

To his teachers, he wasn't normal. Like Shirou's classmates, they were in awe of his perfect grades, natural charisma, respectfulness, and kindness. If asked to list their model students, he would top their lists every single time.

To the numerous females he was acquainted with, he wasn't normal. Although initially passed over as a "mommy's boy" and a "nice guy," after the infamous locker room incident (and the subsequent proliferation of certain scandalous photos of a particular half-naked, golden-eyed, red-haired teenager) he became the unwitting, oblivious object of affection of over half the school's females.

However, none of these unique qualities and mannerisms came close to describing the strange person known as Shirou Emiya.

When Shirou Emiya, then Otani, was a mere 7 years of age, he was caught in the massive conflagration that consumed the better portion of New Fuyuki. Minutes after escaping from the flames, in the process losing his humanity and purpose for living, he was persuaded to enter a portal into a new world, and be given a chance to reforge himself anew amidst the flames of agony.

For the world that Shirou Otani fell into was a kingdom known as **Drangleic**. Drangleic was a decaying and decrepit kingdom, its king missing and its people afflicted with the **Undead Curse.** The Undead Curse was a mysterious disease, and those afflicted by it could not ever physically die. However, after each successive death, significant portions of the persons sanity were lost, and the skin and internal organs began to decay.

It was rumored that the Undead Curse could be combated by the acquisition of **souls**. In fact, such a rumor had a grain of truth to it, as the presence of magical circuits could slow the decay caused by the Undead Curse.

However, it should be noted that the magical circuits of Drangleic were of several hundred times lower in quality compared to those on Earth, and so therefore an Undead could acquire hundreds or even thousands of souls yet not see a tangible result in combating the spread of the disease.

Nevertheless, the Undead placed their faith in the legends, and fought viciously amongst themselves in order to obtain more and more souls.

To add to the chaos, hordes of beasts known as **Hollows **had beset the dying kingdom. Hollows were the remnants of former Undead, driven insane after repeated deaths, and existed only to prey on the souls of others to sate their unnatural hunger. Hollows, strangely, held onto the few reminders and obligations of their previous life fiercely, suggesting that Hollows were not simply animals and remained somewhat sentient.

Rightfully, the Shirou Otani who had fallen into this dangerous and rotting kingdom should've died, for children are small and weak, obedient slaves to their mercurial whims. Normal children would've succumbed to the effects of the Curse within days, if not within hours or even minutes.

However, as it has been stated before, Shirou was anything but normal.

It was through strength, willpower, and a significant amount of luck that Shirou Otani survived, albeit barely. His survival was also made possible by the sage advice given to him from the enigmatic woman Shanalotte, known throughout the kingdom as the Emerald Herald. She told the young boy of the **Prophecy of the Chosen Undead**, which stated that one day a **Chosen Undead **would defeat the vessels of the Four Great Souls and ascend the throne of Drangleic, ending the Undead Curse.

And so through blood and fire the boy fought, endlessly. Hordes of enemies were slaughtered and great monsters slain. As he further engaged in battle, spilling the blood of thousands, he began to lose his purpose once more, forgetting who he was, almost drowning himself in the depths of insanity.

But he held firm, grasping tightly onto an ideal long broken, a belief long shattered, until he reached the Throne.

It was then when he realized that the Ascension of the Throne did not mean to become the next Monarch of Drangleic, but rather something far more, something greater.

Throughout the annals of history, a common pattern has been established amongst kingdoms and nations. Hypothesized by the Chinese, it is known as the Dynastic Cycle, a never-ending isochronism of Birth, Life, and Death.

The Cycle in Drangleic, and its predecessor kingdoms, was represented by Fire, as while the Flame burns, Mankind thrives in what is known as the Golden Age. But all good things must come to an end, when the flame begins to die out, when it turns from a roaring fire to mere embers, the Undead Curse begins to take hold of Mankind once more, burying it in an anarchical period of darkness, despair, and uncertainty.

And so Emiya Shirou made his choice, utilizing his vast collection of souls to relight the Flame and continue the cycle, throwing Mankind back into the Age of Fire.

As his physical body was consumed by the flames, Shirou accepted his death, wishing for a quiet and eternal peace in exchange for the horrors that he had experienced, and he himself had committed.

But a soul as enormous and as magnificent was his was not to go unnoticed by Alaya. For the entity representing mankind's desire to avoid extinction had sensed the apotheosis of Shirou Otani, and, seeing the coming ruin of Mankind in the near future, made the impossible possible.

Conspiring with Gaea, who machinations also involved one Shirou Otani, the two entities were able to bend the laws of the Universe.

In a matter of mere seconds, Shirou had ascended back into his own world, remade and reborn, like a Phoenix from the ashes, under the light blood red moon.

Mere minutes later, he stumbled upon a dying man, who was filled with regrets, sorrows, and wishes. A man whose name was Kiritsugu Emiya.

While Shirou tried desperately, but ultimately in vain, to heal the cursed Magus with his most powerful healing magicks, the last of the Emiyas had told Shirou about the atrocities that he had committed under the monicker The Magus Killer, and of the consequences of holding onto his impossible ideals for so long. The confessions of a monster who was once human.

But in Shirou's eyes, Kiritsugu Emiya was the embodiment of a true hero. A talentless man who took it upon himself to save the world, and although incapable of fulfilling his dream, pursued it anyways.

That was something that Shirou had never really considered nor appreciated in his time in Drangleic. For in that decaying kingdom, while he searched for the remnants of his humanity within himself, Shirou had drowned in a haze of endless blood and battle. Every second was fought for survival, and the meaning of mercy was forgotten in that desperate land.

How many of the Undead and the Hollows he had killed were like Kiritsugu? Trying desperately to find a way to relink the Flame, in order to save Mankind from darkness?

As Kiritsugu Emiya drew in his final breath, Shirou found a purpose within himself again, and swore that he would forever uphold those forsaken ideals, and succeed where Kiritsugu failed. It was his duty, his penance for the sins he had committed before.

He knew quite well that the dream passed down from Kiritsugu to him could never be fully realized, but he would pursue them anyhow, until he himself drew his final breath.

The next day, he took up the family name Emiya, forever honoring the man that had tortured himself with a fate worse than death for the sake of others.

An indomitable will stronger than wrought iron.

An inner strength that moved the mountains.

A compendium of lost ideals that would change the world.

It was these traits, and the multitude of experiences that accompanied them, that made Emiya Shirou special.

So when Shirou heard the clash of blades as he stayed late at school one night to clean the dojo, he did not hesitate to investigate, resolving to end the conflict as quickly and efficiently as possible.

After all, fighting _was_ his specialty.

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><p>Lancer hissed in annoyance as he was knocked away a slash from the red and black clad Servant, countering quickly with a flurry of light thrusts that forced his opponent back.<p>

The Archer-Class Servant was actually giving him not insignificant trouble, the black and white falchions somehow able to deflect all of Lancer's attacks while remaining in a position threatening enough that it prevented Lancer from unleashing his full offensive capabilities.

The Archer's unique fighting style was nothing to sniff at either. Maintaining a variety of glaring openings, as to predict where he could and would attack. Annoyingly difficult to get around, yes, but Lancer comforted himself with the fact that the novel defense was the only thing that prevented the other Servant from turning into a puddle of magical energy.

Feint, slash, parry, thrust, dodge. It seemed to be a never ending process, the tide of the battle going back and forth one way or another, neither side gaining a permanent advantage.

Lancer slowly grew more and more irritated by the lack of action, crimson tendrils of magical energy slowly beginning to crackle around his spear. Growling with annoyance, he slashed his spear downwards, nullifying what seemed to be a projectile curse shot from the girl Master.

Not a second later he was forced to twist his body to let the thrice-damned Chinese falchions to pass by him without grazing his skin, or even worse, scratch the blue skintight armor suit that had been gifted to him by his former master.

If she got word that he screwed up and damaged the armor, she would surely have his head.

Tilting his head to avoid a rather nasty blow to the face that would've surely ended him had he not dodged, Lancer knew it was time to end the fight. The magical energies that had accumulated around his spear began to pool at the very tip.

Lancer slashed viciously with his spear in a full-turn guard-break blow, causing Archer to stumble slightly. The fastest Servant's eyes gleamed as he rushed to exploit the opening as quickly as possible.

Jumping backwards nigh-instantaneously, due to his vastly superior speed, Lancer raised his spear, preparing to cry out a name that could throw the most resolute of knights into despair just by its mentioning.

The name of his infamous cursed spear, Gaé Bolg.

Just as he was about to activate his Noble Phantasm, however, the sound of the crunching of boots on gravel was heard, the noise twisting its way into the middle of the fight.

Instantly, both combatants halted their respective attacks, eyes focusing sharply on the source of the noise. By that time, however, Lancer could only catch a glimpse of amber eyes and fiery red hair disappearing into the cover of darkness.

Lancer instantly rolled his eyes. "Pcht. Witnesses. They just _love_ ruining everything, don't they? Fights included."

The Irish Heroic Spirit glanced at Archer for confirmation. The other Servant merely shrugged.

With a final snort, Lancer took off in search of the boy. As the fastest class, it was only a few seconds before he had caught up with his target.

To his surprise, however, the boy was extremely agile, thinking quickly on his feet. Lancer felt his respect for the boy grow, if only slightly. Had he been restricted to only the maximum of human physical capabilities, Lancer knew he would probably have not been able to catch up.

Unfortunately for the boy, however, Lancer was no mere human.

The boy ran up a flight of stairs to the rooftop, kicking the door with enough force to break the deadbolt holding it in place, and stumbled on the roof, panting.

Lancer's eyebrows rose slightly. Such a feat was quite difficult for humans as well. If he were facing a Mystic-Code wielding, Reinforced Magus here...

Pft. What were the chances of that? And even so, it wasn't as if Mages could even scratch Servant, much less a member of the fastest of Servant Classes.

The Servant returned from the Astral Plane, mouth turned up in a taunting grin. "Not bad, not bad, boy. Most people wouldn't be able to even make it this far. I commend you on your agility. You must've trained hard to be in such fantastic physical shape!"

The boy merely glared at him, still breathing heavily, his brilliant golden eyes full of fire.

Lancer's smile grew wider. A feisty one! This would make it all the more enjoyable. "A pity its all for naught though. You see, kid, you stumbled upon something you weren't suppose to see, something that was suppose to remain secret." Lancer shrugged. "Wrong time, wrong place, kid. Unlucky for you, cause you got the short end of the stick in life."

The Heroic Spirit twirled his spear in a fanciful motion, pulling it back so the gleaming red tip pointed straight at the boy. "Prepare to meet your death, boy!"

The red-head's eyes narrowed, a smirk appearing on his face. The boy held out his right hand, uttering two words that shocked Lancer to the core.

"Trace...on!"

Dark and burnished boots erupted from nothingness, materializing from another plane onto the boy's feet. Soon, shinguards of the same make appeared, then a breastplate, then the vambrances and gauntlets, the armor slowly constructing from ground up.

Finally, a black helm materialized on the boy's head, the twisted feline visage of a dark lion gracing the visor.

"A Mystic Code? No, no, I'm wrong. Projection Magic?" Lancer asked, somewhat awed by the sight. His mouth opened upwards in a competitive smile. "Quite advanced Projection too. Impressive. Who are you?"

The boy smirked beneath the darkness of his visor. "I have been called many things, spearman. The Bearer of the Curse. The Next Monarch. The Chosen Undead. You will know me as your vanquisher."

A tarnished crossguarded silver spear, reeking of the dark element, materialized in the boy's right hand. He swung the crossed weapon down in a motion befitting an ancient Greek warrior, the butt of the spear slamming into the ground, cracking the concrete rooftop and sending a small tremble through the makeshift arena.

In a single graceful movement, the spear was twisted up and around, the shaft parallel to the ground. The blade shone faintly in the night, ominously reflecting the sickly pale light of the moon, causing Lancer to shiver slightly in trepidation.

The boy smirked beneath his helmet. "Shall we dance, Spearman?"

Lancer slowly grinned, shaking off his slight hesitation. It had been years, and he was itching for a good fight. "I'm more than happy to oblige, my good friend."

With those words spoken, the Irish hero leaped through the air with blinding speed, so fast that a normal human could not even sense, let alone analyze and react to, his movements.

But that boy was anything but normal.

As the cursed red spear descended upon him, the teen rose to counter it with equally blinding speed, swinging his cross-hilted spear in an efficient and elegant movement.

With a resounding clang, the spears met, sending sparks scattering through the air. Lancer eyes widened in shock as he felt unwavering, resolute strength behind the parry. He gritted his teeth, pushing back with even more force, but to no avail; his opponent's strength doubling, matching the force without hesitation.

Suddenly, Shirou broke off the engagement, spinning around and sending a flying kick at a shocked Lancer, sending the Knight-Class Servant flying through the air. Lancer groaned as he hit a concrete wall with enough force to pulverize a normal man's insides into paste; however, to the legendary Irish Heroic Spirit, it was naught but a superficial wound.

That wasn't to say it didn't damn hurt though.

The boy attacked ruthlessly, instantaneously, refusing to let Lancer receive even a few moments of respite. A vicious thrust from the barred spear was parried by a disdainful flick from Lancer's cursed red spear and returned in kind.

Without missing a beat, the boy countered, redirecting the thrust away, and smoothly leapt over the Servant. Lancer quickly turned, avoiding the long metal shaft of the spear as it sailed past him and into the ground, pulverizing the concrete. Unexpectedly, however, the shaft flicked upwards, sending finely ground concrete powder into Lancer's eyes.

Lancer cursed himself for severely underestimating the boy's skill, and was forced on the defensive. Deadly thrusts were redirected at the last second, and vicious, aggressive, yet precise swings were ducked under, avoided by a had no time to consciously analyze the boy's fighting style, forced to rely solely on instinct, as the extremely fast blows of the boy coupled with the excruciating pain in his eyes were enough to keep him distracted. A single wrong move would lead to defeat, of that he was certain.

He cursed again when the boy's spear blade passed nervously close to his throat, only for the boy to suddenly reverse the direction of the blade. The Servant lifted his crimson spear to deflect the attack, only to double over in pain when an armored boot smashed into his stomach.

Refusing to let the pain get the better of him for even a moment, Lancer rolled to the side instinctively, barely avoiding the swing meant to separate his head from his body. A single opening was all he needed...

He saw his chance a few moments later when the armor-clad boy overreached on a swing, exposing his side to a counterattack. Acting quickly, Lancer leaped forward, his deadly cursed red spear hungering to spill blood.

Right as Lancer reached his target, his red spear pulled back and ready for a mighty thrust, the Servant spotted a fast-moving object, even by a Servant's standards, in the corner of his eye. His eyes widened.

"Oh, _SHIT_!"

**BOOM!**

Several projectiles composed of pure black magical energy connected with the Servant's side, the ensuing dark explosion throwing Lancer onto the concrete rooftop with considerable force. For a few seconds, silence reigned, both dark hazy smoke and the night itself obscuring the light of the stars.

The Servant groaned as he pulled himself back up to his feet, using his red spear as a crutch.

"Whatever the hell that was, that friggin' HURT! What a shitty way to end the day," he cursed. The Servant glanced around, unable to see anything clearly in the murk that surrounded him "Where the hell is that guy?"

A few seconds passed, and then a minute, until Lancer finally shook his head. "Who knows? Maybe if I'm lucky the pesty little fucker got killed by his own spell...Amateur."

A dark figure shot through the smoke, its spear raised in what was no doubt an attacking position.

"AW FUCK!"

Fueled by adrenaline, and acting on pure instinct alone, Lancer threw himself to one side, hoping that he didn't choose the wrong way to jump and that his life wouldn't be ended in the next moment.

Thank the Gods, it didn't.

Not a second later, the boy slammed onto the rooftop, his spear effortlessly skewing through the concrete, creating a long furrow that extended over fifteen feet. Without waiting but a moment, he threw out his hand, summoning more of his Dark Element Projectiles, and quickly directing them at Lancer.

However, this time Lancer was ready. He easily maneuvered his way around the projectiles, spinning around most of the Dark projectile and destroying the few that he could not avoid with his cursed red spear.

Landing gracefully on his feet, the Servant wasted no time in pushing the offensive. The rapid, blitzkrieg like attacks dished out by his cursed red spear were not meant to kill...well, immediately that is, but rather disable and cripple his opponent's defense.

The boy winced as one such thrust slipped through his defenses, slamming into his armor and knocking the wind out of him. His momentary lapse in defense was immediately exploited by the Lancer, who slammed his fist into the boy's stomach repeatedly before punching the teen in the face, sending him staggering.

The boy recovered quickly enough to deflect a lethal thrust from the spearman with his own spear. The boy sent a multitude of quick flurry strikes that were meant to distract rather than kill, but Lancer had seen far too many battles to fall for such a trick.

With a vicious kick, he knocked the boy backwards, and spun around, exposing his back for the most minute of moments in order to use his guard-breaker technique to maximum effect.

It turned out to be a grievous mistake.

For the next sensation Lancer knew was pain.

Pure, extraordinarily intense pain.

He coughed, and stared down at his chest, gaping at the long spear-blade that had pierced through his body. What was this? He couldn't possibly been have...

Lancer barely even noticed when he was lifted into the air, his body still punctured by the spear, and slammed back onto the concrete roof.

The Servant was sent flying through the air, smashing through a pile of rubble created during their fight, and slid across the roof, numb and unmoving.

_Lancer!_

He could hear the worried cries of his master through their link, beckoning him, screaming at him to get back up.

Lancer could see her right now. Bazett, was it? A purple-haired Enforcer with that vicious temper?

What was the point of trying to fight back? It was all over. He had lost.

Then suddenly...

He remembered.

A red haired, passionate woman, with a fiery disposition to match. His teacher, the warrior-woman Scáthach.

Lancer winced as he imagined the thought of being lectured, and beaten, thoroughly by his teacher if she ever learned of his current failure. But he grew ashamed when he imagined the disappointed look on her face when he told her he had given up.

Goddamnit. It was so easy to give in to the excruciating pain. But for Scáthach's sake, he couldn't.

He would not die today.

With immense effort, he forced his eyes open, distantly hearing a war-cry from far above.

"Oh, SHIT!"

Lancer immediately rolled himself to the left, grasping his spear as he did so. The gaping wound in his chest inflicted upon him moments earlier, luckily for him, had missed his heart. Due to the Servant's much-superior physiology, Lancer was able to fight with a significant portion of his original ability despite receiving what would normally be a mortal wound.

Of course, if he could ignore the agonizing pain in his chest.

The boy smashed into the ground a moment later with such an impact a small crater had formed at the site of landing. In the very center, the boy kneeled, his spear penetrating the concrete all the way to the crossguard.

A moment later, his opponent looked up at him, asking calmly, nigh-emotionlessly, "How? How are you still alive? Not even the greatest of beasts could've possibly survived such a wound."

Lancer smirked confidently, refusing to acknowledge the pain that bit at his chest. "I'm a Servant, kid. Any half-decent Servant worth their two cents could take a spear to the chest and still fight. Didn't you know that, boy?"

Ok. Maybe what he said was a bit of a stretch, but there were still a significant number of Servants who could take such a beating and still destroy entire armies effortlessly.

The boy frowned. "Servant? What do you mean?"

Lancer gaped at the boy, shocked. A Magus, an extraordinarily powerful one at that, living in Fuyuki City, the HEART of the Grail War, and he had no clue what a Servant was. He shook his head. "Does the term Servant mean anything to you, lad?"

The boy shook his head in slight confusion.

"Alright...What about Masters? Masters and Servants?"

Another shake of the head.

"Lancer? Saber? Archer?"

Shake, shake, shake.

"Holy Grail?"

Another shake of the head. Lancer wanted to laugh at the bitter, cruel irony of it all. One of the most powerful magi he had the honor meeting and fighting in over five hundred years, and the boy was painfully unaware of the circumstances that had led to their fight.

Oh well. He had to do what he had to do.

"I'm sorry then, kid. You just caught up in something thats terribly important, and, unfortunately, I can't let you live." Lancer grinned as he lifted his cursed red spear, crackles of magical energy running up and down its length.

The boy did the same, raising the beautiful crossguard spear of his parallel to the ground and pointing straight at him, free arm outstretched, in a traditional Eastern fighting stance. Silence fell between the two, the sickly pale light of the moon reflecting faintly off their respective armor.

Then they _moved_.

The boy charged forward at an inhuman speed, spear raised high and ready to spill blood.

But the Irish Heroic Spirit known as Cú Chulainn was even faster. He leaped into the air, far above the concrete rooftop, letting the magical energies surrounding his spear collectively gather at the tip.

A yell split the silent night.

"GAÉ BOLG!"

And within a second, silence ruled once more.

The phenomenon known as reverse causality had been enacted.

Normally, the cause is subsequently followed by the effect. Such a process is something that can be seen in every single moment, in every single minute, in every single year, over and over and over again.

However, reverse causation is a phenomenon in which the effect actually occurs before the cause does.

In this particular case, instead of the spear being thrust and then subsequently the heart being pierced, the heart was pierced first, and then the spear thrust.

And so the boy could not block the strike, as it had yet to happen.

The boy's heart was pierced, the reverse causality effect ignoring the powerful armor that had once belonged to a Dragonslayer and had prevented Lancer from inflicting serious wounds earlier in the fight.

His opponent fell on his knees. The boy's hands vainly tried to grip the hole where his heart was, to stem the bleeding's crimson flow down his chest. The mighty spear that had been the bane of Lancer's night was dispelled, along with the armor, leaving behind a red-haired teenage boy barely sixteen years of age.

Lancer walked slowly towards the boy, spear over his shoulder, and clutching the wound in his chest. "You were an excellent fighter. Its a pity that I had to kill you, but as a parting gift, I will give you the name of your killer, the great warrior who you had the honor tonight of battling."

The boy raised his head, eyes glaring defiantly at Lancer. Voice rasping, he asked, "What are you?"

The Servant grinned. "Cú Chulainn, at your service."

The boy's eyes widened in confusion and panic, before narrowing once more. "Impossible! It has been over a millennium since your death! You cannot possibly be alive!"

"Believe it or not, boy, but you've been slain by the greatest Hero of Ireland. That alone is an honor." Lancer said curtly. "Of course, the circumstances of my current existence remain strictly confidential, so if I were you, I wouldn't worry about that. Spend the last few moments of your life contemplating on your unluckiness. Bitching or not, that's what I'd do if I were an unaware 'ickle teenager forced to fight a Servant simply because I saw something I wasn't supposed to."

Shooting the boy a bloodthirsty grin, Lancer turned away and began to walk towards the edge of the concrete rooftop.

A flat and frigid voice, somehow accentuated by a cold rage that burned like the vicious winds of a blizzard, stopped the Servant dead in his tracks.

"Shirou Emiya. Remember that name, Hound of Ulster. Remember that name, for one day, I will hunt you down, and I _will_ destroy you."

Lancer paused for a moment, the threat sounding so real, so _genuine_, it actually sparked a small measure of wariness within him. He shook it off; it was merely an irrational thought.

Regaining his composure almost instantaneously, the Heroic Spirit smirked. "I look forward to that, Emiya-san."

The honorific did not go unnoticed, marking Lancer's acknowledgement of the Shioru as an equal.

And so, without a backwards look, Lancer sprung off the ruined school rooftop and into the night, watched only by the cold white light of the stars above.

Far below, one Rin Tohsaka raced up the steps, cursing, a pendant with a crimson, triangular-shaped jewel swinging wildly from her hands.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, that's the end of it. I was somewhat inspired by the scenes in badliar 2312's fanfiction Fate: Heaven's Works, so you should check that fic out. Unfortunately, it hasn't been updated since June, and I find it highly unlikely the author will return to it any time soon (e.g. never).<strong>

**Also, expect slow, slow updates. I have a lot of random ideas, and I can't write at all (let alone well) unless I'm very inspired. I almost consider it a miracle I even completed this chapter at all...**

**Shirou's armor is that of the Old Dragonslayer in the Blue Cathedral. Google it if you want a look.**

**Drop a Review if you can!**

**-Knight of Kesem**


	2. The Summoning

**AN: FIRST I apologize for the slowness of my update. I have a bunch of stuff going on, such as rowing, insane AP classes, Science Fair (if any of you are in college biology and are willing to help please do), flute, etc.**

**So I've seen a lot of complaints (not on my fic, of couse) about Shirou on how he's so weak and pathetic etc. throughout the visual novel and anime.**

**Although I do agree that Shirou is really weak, and that it annoys me at times, one must realize that it can't be helped. Shirou is a seventeen year old teenager, whose talents at a magus are pretty much limited to Structural Grasping and Reinforcement, with some skill in archery and some experience in kendo. He's going up against people who were giants in their lifetime, as well as other Magi who have trained their entire lives, as well as a master assassin.**

**What the heck are the developers suppose to do? Make him on their level? That's definitely not realistic.**

**Also, some of the reviewers seem to be expecting Shirou to be god-like and steamroll all the competition. THIS is NOT going to be that fic with a supreme OP!Shiro. Why?**

**Think of the fighting style implemented in Dark Souls. What is it?**

**Grinding. Painful grinding. Wait a long time for a weakness to be exploited, and THEN strike, but only once or twice. Defeating strong enemies in Dark Souls is not easy task whatsoever, and the fighting style employed by Hollows are not those implemented by Heroic Spirits. Therefore, Shirou STILL is at a disadvantage when it comes to fighting Servants. Always keep that in mind.**

**DISCLAIMER: ****The Fate/Stay Night Franchise belongs exclusively to Type-Moon, while the Dark Souls Franchise belongs exclusively to From Software. I do not own any elements from either franchise that have been incorporated in my fanfiction.**

* * *

><p><span><em>Interlude...<em>

_It must've been quite the sight, a seven year old boy clad in scraps of clothes slamming a dulled rusted sword repeatedly against the legs of a Giant for what, for all I know, might've been hours._

_Giants are a hardy species. Their skin is tough, like the rocks, and they have wills steel. Such a combination formates a deadly opponent; slow they may be, but their blows are both staggering and crippling._

_I was extraordinarily lucky one two accounts. One was simply that I was such a small target. __Many many times, I came close to being crushed into a bloody paste by the Giant's foot. Such a fate was avoided by a few feet, and on some occasions, a few inches._

_Another advantage I had was the restricted mobility of my opponent. The Giant I faced was impaled through the chest by some object unbelievably long in length. If such a blow had been sustained by a human, there would be little doubt that he would die._

_Due to these factors, I was able to read the Giant's moves far ahead of time, thereby allowing me to dodge repeatedly and with great precision with some leeway if I had made a mistake._

_At one point in the fight, the Giant was so desperate to kill me that it ripped off its own arm in an attempt to lengthen its range of attack._

_In the end, it was that very act that killed it, the loss of blood so great that black liquid covered over a quarter of the rather spacious cave floor in copious amounts. _

_Even on the verge of death it remained defiant, striking out blindly with its arm, as if it were a sword, in a vain, spiteful attempt to take me down as well._

_Yet of all things that occurred that day, I remember the very moment I embraced its soul the best._

_Beneath my feet were the weapons of the previous Undead who had tried their luck before me. Undead who were now shadows of their former selves, smashed and broken endlessly against the stone skin of the Giant as they returned time after time again._

_I was gasping heavily, sweat pouring all over my body. My mouth was dry to a point I could no longer feel its insides, my tongue flapping in vain to coax saliva from the desiccated glands._

_The muscles of my thin body were on fire, jolts of pain flashing through my body not unlike how lightning would strike the ground. My sword, pilfered from an unlucky Hollow, had long since blunted against the stone skin of the giant. It repurposed itself as a crutch, holding my trembling body up._

_My mind was in shambles, barely coherent and conscious. But I could feel my persona gradually fill itself with a single emotion._

_Even in that hell, in that bitterly cold cavern that now housed the fresh corpse of a Giant, I could only feel delight at my success, a feeling of unexplainable exuberance and euphoria overtaking me as the massive soul of the Giant slammed deep into my chest._

_I was-_

**_Intoxicated with victory,_**

**_Upon a hill of swords..._**

-_Shirou Emiya, In Remembrance of a Dying Land, PUB. 2033_

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><p><em>"I would rather die a meaningful death than to live a meaningless life."<em>

_-Corazon Aquino_

**EMBERS**

Chapter 2: The Summon

_Pain._

_It was a sensation that he was quite familiar with. Being an Undead meant pain in its own right, and the multitude of wounds one accumulated in the accursed land of Drangleic become a familiar, if not welcome, feeling that all inhabitants of the kingdom grew used to._

_What was going on again?_

_Oh right. His stupid mentor, a blind old Japanese swordsman, had beaten him in a humiliating, one-sided duel._

_His name..._

_What was it again? Zankuro? Zakari? Zatoichi?_

_Zatoichi! That was right. Another Undead originating from Earth, his teacher had lived in Drangleic for over a century, yet still retaining his humanity and purpose, testament to the old man's strength._

_The old swordsman, upon meeting him in the fading town of Majula, had taken the task of training him after witnessing the boy's battle with, of all things, vicious pigs that inhabited a particular corner of the town._

_He had found the pigs when searching for a lost key, and upon seeing the animals, he had attempted to skin and eat them._

_Unfortunately for him, the pigs had skin as tough as leather armor, and a nasty temper when provoked. He had been running away from the bloodthirsty swine when he had encountered the old man, thoroughly humiliated._

_With two quick slashes from a sword that appeared to have been drawn from the old man's cane, the pigs that had been terrorizing him for nearly an hour fell, a gash in each throat._

_The old man, who now introduced himself as Zatoichi, then proceeded to lecture him for over an hour about the importance of observing an opponent carefully before attacking (somewhat strange, coming from a man who was blind). When the tirade finally finished, Zatoichi declared that he would teach him the art of the sword and dragged him off to his camp._

_He had jokingly agreed to the old man's offer of training, pitying the old man for his senile belief that a blind man could actually teach a young boy the art of the sword._

_He was quickly proven wrong. Zatoichi had immediately thrown him a shortsword, and, without warning, began his attacks with a real, and quite sharp blade._

_So that was how h_e _ended up here, lying on the ground, bleeding, beaten, bruised, and weary to the bone._

_Faintly, he could hear the voice of his master, mocking him, demeaning him, insulting him brutally and without respite._

_Fuck the old man. His training methods were, quite simply put, inhumane._

_Who the hell would cut apart nine year old children anyways? Or force them to run for hours on end, throwing daggers at them when they stopped? Or forced them to sleep outside in freezing weather for the sake of "environmental fitness?"_

_Answer: Zatiochi, the blind swordsman._

_He really wanted to just curl up and sleep, to ignore the hellish training and live a somewhat normal, plain life in Drangleic._

_But deep in his heart, he knew that he could not. For if he gave up now, he would be condemned to a fate far worse than death, forced to forever endure the ceaseless horrors of the Hollows. What was the meaning of living a normal life in a world where satisfaction with normalcy was nonexistent?_

_In that moment, he reached an epiphany, something tangible that could finally pierce the thick mist of confusion that had surrounded him ever since his arrival._

_As much as he hated it, Zatiochi's training had given him a new purpose, after he had wandered for two full years in stagnancy, unsure of how to proceed. A single week under the old swordsman and he could already feel an old fire fill his bones, one that he had not felt since slaying the Giant._

_Deep within him, a sensation had begun to fill him. A joyful feeling, one that whispered and promised success, one that instilled something What was this?_

_Was this...hope?_

_Oh no matter. He could not waste his time on pondering the new feelings that burgeoned within him._

_In that moment, he let only a single thought fill him, a single thought to consume his soul._

_Get up._

_His muscles screeched in protest as he contracted them, the nerves connecting them to his mind alight with a biting pain. He bit his unfeeling mouth hard to contain the scream that threatened to escape him, the coppery taste of his crimson blood flowing into his mouth, a strangely stimulating sensation that served to drive away the fog of weariness about him._

_Get up!_

_A sharp pang of pain shot through his skull as he strained to pull his mental faculties together. His mind, which could be considered quite possibly to be the most powerful organic supercomputer in the world, fought desperately against the black cloud that inhibited his senses. _

_He inhaled, sensing the multitude of smells that inhabited the world: the musty, fresh soil, the sweet water that trickled in the background, the light and controlled breathing possessed by his master._

_Get Up!_

_He forced his heavy eyelids open, fighting through a haze of darkness that beckoned rest. Small specks of light sparkled across his vision, like stars upon the sky. Yet for once their light not cold and uncaring but rather warm and comforting, embracing him, supporting him, beckoning him forth._

_GET UP!_

_..._

_..._

_..._

Shirou shot forward, gasping, sharp pains not unlike the preliminary shocks of a heart attack sparking through his body.

His golden eyes shot rapidly around, taking in his surroundings.

Nothing.

Where the hell was he?

A few moments of bewilderment, and the confusion begins to overwhelm him.

_Breathe, Shirou. In, out._

He shook his head, regaining control over his breathing instantly. A state of calm enveloped his mind, a familiar and warm presence, and he let the cool rationality that came with it to take over.

Ok.

What exactly happened?

He had stayed at school late, cleaning up the dojo yet again after one worm-like Shinji Matou, only to be interrupted in his meditative work by the familiar clang of blades coming from the distant parking lot.

When he arrived, he had seen something he hadn't seen in a full four years: a fight between two gods of war, blazing with a furious glory that left him in awe.

Although their proficiency in battle were more or less equal, the two combatants themselves couldn't be more different.

One was a black-haired man with olive skin and bone earrings, covered in blue skintight bodysuit with several iron pauldrons fused onto the torso.

He wielded a crimson spear that glowed with bloodthirsty magical energy that had sent shivers down his spine.

That spear had _**definitely**_ not been just for show.

The spearman's movements had been extremely quick and erratic, unpredictable to a point that even the best of warriors would not be able to deflect or avoid the repeated thrusts, swings, and slashes that flowed smoothly into one another.

As skilled as the fierce warrior was...

The other combatant was far more familiar and, in Shirou's opinion, far more intriguing.

He was a white-haired man, with heavily tanned skin, clad in blood-red and black armor. A short 'tail' of his coat billowed behind him, just reaching below his knees. An austere expression complemented his naturally stoic countenance, and his movements were feline and graceful in nature, yet remained highly efficient, not wasting a single drop of energy.

That red and black donned man, seemingly anointed in the flames of blood and war, wielded two short Chinese falchions, one white of the purest Northern snow, the other the black of the Darkest night.

His fighting style was also both unique and mesmerizing to watch.

It was immediately obvious, when Shirou had been watching the fight, that the blue-armored man held the advantage.

Better weapons.

Faster reflexes.

Stronger muscles.

Unparalleled offensive prowess.

All of these, the blue-armored, dark-haired man possessed in spades.

But the simple fact was, that the weaker man simply **_dominated_** the match.

It wasn't the stronger man who was able dictate the flow of the battle.

It was the weaker man who chose which openings were to be exploited, and prepared for them accordingly.

Which terrain they would fight upon.

Where each blow would land.

What strength each attack would be struck with.

With the accumulation of control over all these factors, it was the physically weaker man who pushed back his opponent successfully, even managing to land grazing blows that slowly chipped away at the spearman's defenses.

But perhaps the most intriguing of all was the way the man felt to Shirou.

For some reason, the man seemed so very...

Familiar?

The man's most distinctive physical feature were his eyes, flat and soulless, a twisted version of a color that could once be identified as gold.

Gold.

The color of success, achievement and triumph. Associated with abundance and prosperity, luxury and quality, prestige and sophistication, value and elegance, the psychology of this color implies affluence, material wealth and extravagance. Linked to masculine energy and the power of the sun.

Those dead eyes were once vibrant, full of life and joy, shining a pure gold that was uncorrupted in any form or manner.

Now all that remained of them were merely jaded apparitions, embodying a great sorrow and hopelessness, faintly glowing a malevolent color a close relative of their former shade of gold.

Yellow.

The color of cowardice, betrayal, and jaundice. Associated, most famously, with Apostle Judas, who betrayed Jesus Christ to the Romans, as well as deceit, pessimism, catharsis, apathy, illness, and faithlessness. The eye color of the infamous Sith Lords, some of which he actually encountered during his travels in Drangleic.

They were the eyes of Kiritsugu Emiya, a man who had gone so far in pursuing his ideals that they became twisted, perverted shades of their former selves, condemning him to a forgotten life of pain and misery.

Shirou couldn't help but feel a spark of pity and understanding at the sight. It was a visage he was all too familiar with, one that he too experienced once before.

Fighting endlessly, seemingly without purpose, slaughtering both guilty and innocent for a Greater Good that had yet to be confirmed, let alone even seen.

Yes, that was undoubtedly what the red and black armored man was condemned to, a fate that he would wish upon no one, as it had once come upon him.

He winced as he felt his chest twinge, briefly breaking him out of his reverie.

What had happened after again?

Silence once again reigned for a few seconds as Shirou forced his rational consciousness through the hazy fog of exhaustion that clouded his mind.

Ah.

The golden-eyed boy sighed with relief as the memories of a few hours previous began rushing back to him.

He had proceeded, after cleaning the dojo that a particular _Matou_ refused to, to notify the combatants of his presence, an amateurish mistake that he cringed at, and promptly ran for his life as their attention refocused on him instead.

The next part was the most confusing.

After he had run at completely inhuman speeds to the school rooftop-yet another amateurish mistake, he thought to himself-the spearman had caught up to him, materializing out of thin air...

...And proceeded to give a short monologue on the shortness and worthlessness of Shirou's life, before promptly attempting to commit murder.

Of course, he fought back, resummoning his Drangleic battle armor and his spear, both of which were renowned through its homeland, before charging headlong into the familiar rhythm of battle.

Luckily for him, his opponent had severely underestimated his abilities, allowing him to score several significant hits, that, in reality, should've granted him a clear and easy victory.

Yet...

Yet even after he had kicked the spearman into a concrete wall at a force well over one hundred and six kilonewtons, pulverized him with several bolts of dark magic, and _stabbed him through the goddamn chest __with a cursed spear_, his opponent had gotten up, showing little depreciation in fighting ability.

It was then that Shirou realized that he was dealing with an entity that far outstripped even his own rather impressive abilities. No one, not even Nashandra the Queen of Darkness, could withstand a spear thrust from a cursed blade to the heart, no matter how strong they were.

But that..._thing_, had claimed that it was normal for it-and its kind, implying there were even more of those monstrosities out there-to get up from what would normally be universally considered as a lethal blow.

Yet even when he had realized he was up against near impossible odds, he had charged on forward, believing that he could at least force a stalemate.

But the spearman had leapt back, letting the blood tendrils of magical energy that whipped around the crimson spear to pool at its razor tip, before shouting the name of the Irish Hero Cú Chulainn's spear, Gaé Bolg, and thrusting his weapon.

There was no sign of any magical or physical attack. The crimson tendrils collectively gathered at his opponent's spear did not launch themselves as projectiles, nor did they manifest into another form alltogether.

They simply...

...Disappeared.

Vanished.

Into _bloody _thin air.

And not a second later, he found himself collapsing to the cold concrete rooftop on his knees, his nigh-impervious armor dissipating back into the next plane of existence, clutching desperately at the fiery pain that gripped his heart.

The spearman then proceeded to walk up to him, giving a maudlin speech about the marked courage and skill the red-haired boy had displayed, before proclaiming himself to be the ancient Irish Hero Cú Chulainn, also known as the Hound of Ulster.

Cú Chulainn? Really?

He had almost laughed outright at the thought. An ancient Irish Hero resurrected in twenty-first century, in a modern-day Hunger Games where the prize was everlasting fame and glory.

That was the last thought that had flashed through his mind before his eyesight shrunk into tunnel vision before fading into darkness.

And now here he was.

Shirou was certain that he had died; after all, who could survive

But he lived.

How?

A slight reflection of light was caught in the corner of his eye. Shirou turned his head slightly, noticing a small pendant, a brilliant crimson jewel at its crux, with the faint symbol of a cross etched carefully into the stone.

What was that?

Touching it briefly, he detected the faint remnants of residual Prana, an empty container that once held vast amounts of magical energy.

Ah.

A Magus had saved his life, utilizing a precious reservoir of Prana large enough to split a mountain in two to somehow heal his destroyed heart instead of leaving him to die, alone and abandoned.

Wait, what?

The sheer disbelief that a Magus would actually heal someone they didn't know or particularly care for not only left him speechless, but made him burst out openly in laughter.

As soon his humor had subsided, he looked around, gazing at the stars that twinkled above.

He had to get home.

Shirou grunted as white hot fire shot through his veins, pulling himself up onto his feet. He stumbled towards the broken door that was the exit to the now-ruined rooftop.

A few minutes later, he found himself walking out of the school gates into the black darkness, watched only by the faint light of the stars above and deathly rays of a blood-red moon.

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><p>"You're a tricky little bastard, y'know," the blue-armored man, now identified as Cú Chulainn said, yawning slightly. "I killed you, and you promptly come back to life, as springy as a gay youth."<p>

The furrows of Shirou's brow wrinkled, folding downwards in a deadpan glare.

"Tsk, tsk. Still not one to mince words, Emiya?" The Irish hero looked at him, adding almost as an afterthought, "You really look like shit, y'know."

Shirou grimaced. He didn't need a mirror to know that sweat and grime, not to mention dried blood, covered him in copious amounts. "You don't look to good either."

Cú Chulainn looked down at his chest, bloody bandages covering the large wound that still spewed not insignificant amounts of blood. "Ah, fuck you kid. That's naught but a scratch."

The spearman then proceeded to raise his crimson lance, in preparation to skewer Shirou as one would a pig. For a moment, Shirou idly remembered a scene in The Lord of the Flies, when one one of the boys-Jack, if he recalled-stuck a sharpened stick up its...excretory area...in order to kill it for a 'feast.'

Ouch. That must've hurt.

"This time, I'm gonna kill you, and make sure you _stay _dead. No hard feelings kid, you're far too dangerous to be caught up in this war. Not to mention by the looks of those markings on your left hand, you're a Master too. I gotta take care of you, right here and right now." the blue-armored man called out, the muscles on his legs visibly tense and coiled, ready to spring forwards at a moment's notice.

Shirou cursed. His Prana levels were already low due to his preprogrammed Miracle spells, which were meant to activate if he suffered a critical wound. However, none of the Miracles he possessed were potent enough to repair a pierced heart, and so the vast majority of his reserves had, sadly, gone to waste.

Time to stall.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked, faking annoyance and frustration in his voice. "I go to the parking lot to see some white-haired man with twin falchions fighting an Irish Hero who lived over a thousand years ago

Slowly and subtly, he shifted towards the exit of his home that led to the shed that served as his makeshift Workshop.

The blue-armored man in front of him snorted. "You really have no fucking clue what's going on here? You don't know about the War?"

"What war?"

"The Holy Grail War," The Irish Hero intoned, a hint of reverence in his voice. "A battle between Seven Masters and their Seven Servants to obtain the all-powerful, wish-granting device that appears in Fuyuki City..."

Almost to the door...

The self-proclaimed Cú Chulainn cleared his throat, before continuing. "Archer. Assassin. Berserker. Caster. Lancer. Saber. The Seven Servants, with their respective Magus Masters, pitted against each other in an all-or-nothing, to the death, fight, a fight for ever-lasting glory, honor, fame, an-WHA?"

By then, Shirou was already out the door, hobbling as fast as he possibly could.

"Hey! Get back here, ya tricky bastard!"

Shirou ran, Tracing and Reinforcing some nameless sword in his vast archive of weaponry as he did so. He had to get out of here, he had to run...

**BAM!**

A painful impact jarred his back, sending him flying forward several feet through the air and tumbling onto the ground a few seconds later in a crumpled heap.

"Now, now boy. Weren't you listening before when I said I was the fastest of them all?" Cú Chulainn's voice carried across the wind, a hint of faint amusement enhancing the pure mockery in his tone.

Groaning in pain, the amber-eyed boy looked up, his face alighting when he saw the small shed that lay not thirty feet from his current position.

There it was.

Hope grew within him. If only he could reach his stock of **Estus**, an invaluable golden liquid originating from Drangleic that sustained life, he had a chance of fighting back.

Shirou forced himself up, using his Traced sword as a crutch, hurriedly scooping up a small handful of dirt in his left hand.

He made it up just in time to weakly parry a powerful thrust that sent him stumbling backwards.

"No need to resist, kid. You're just making this harder on yourself," Cú Chulainn said nonchalantly, thrusting again and again slowly, like a lion toying with its unlucky antelope prey. "I mean, if you'd just stay dead before, I wouldn't have to make your death so painful."

Snarling at the implied threat, Shirou threw the handful of soil he had grabbed directly into the Irish hero's eyes, blinding and disabling the blue-armoured man temporarily in a rather painful manner.

"Argh! You little fucker!"

Without wasting a moment of time, he hobbled off as quickly as he could.

Twenty-five feet.

He could do this...

Twenty.

Just a few more seconds...

Fifteen.

Almost there...

He prayed to the Deities above that he would make it in time, pleading desperately for a few seconds respite.

But the gods had long forsaken Shirou Emiya and his ever-so-distant dream of saving everyone.

The hair on the back of his neck rose slight, sending a chill down his back, and, not a mere moment later, Shirou found himself locked against the Irish Hero, the jarring impact of spear on sword sending him skidding backwards.

Shirou gritted his teeth as he felt his own blade digging into his arm, as he was unable to match the Irish Hero's strength, the sword pushed back onto its wielder by the cursed spear. Crimson blood poured from his arm as the sharp edge broke skin, sending red liquid flying through the air and onto the dry dirt beneath his feet, staining it a brilliant dark red.

"What's wrong? Not strong enough?" the self-proclaimed Cú Chulainn asked, smiling, revealing sharp white teeth that somehow glinted in the darkness.

The amber-eyed boy merely glared, not even deigning a proper response to his foe.

"How rude. Its customary for one to reply to a comment made towards them by another, especially if said other was their superior."

For a moment, the two combatants remained locked tightly against one another, an odd feeling of tranquility . All that could be heard was the heavy breathing that emanated from the two gladiators as lifeblood continued to spill from their respective wounds: Shirou, from his arm, and Cú Chulainn, from his chest.

Unfortunately for the red-headed teenager, the Irish Hero recovered first, despite the apparent disparity in their injuries.

Shirou was sent stumbling backwards yet again as the Irish Hero sent him stumbling backwards, disoriented.

Shaking the dizziness off of him quickly, he raised his sword in a basic guard stance once more, in the small hope that he could get a lucky shot in.

He weakly thrust at Cú Chulainn, attempting to distract his foe with a barrage of light attacks, to no avail. His blows were both too weak and too slow to even slightly faze his experienced opponent.

In fact, his opponent seemed to be enjoying the fight, dragging it out in order to fully gaze upon the dying hope that Shirou held within him.

The dying hope that Shirou knew was draining from him, replaced with growing horror and fear.

Still, he kept on fighting.

As the blows from the spear slowly became stronger and faster, Shirou's parries became more and more frantic, his muscles burning as he forced his taxed body to the limits.

No longer had he the time to consciously perceive and react appropriately to the random flurry of attacks from the cursed spear.

Only instinct remained as the final resort, instinct that he had honed for a lifetime.

All it would take for his death...

...Would be a single mistake.

...

Of course, he had to jinx it, didn't he?

Not a second later, he miscalculated, overextending a mere three inches on a strike meant to slice the through the thick arteries of the spearman's upper leg.

The imbalance created a split-second opening as Shirou struggled to compensate for the extremely slight unevenness in weight.

Normally, the slight mistake wouldn't even be spotted, let alone exploited, even by skilled warriors.

Heck, even said warriors would be hard-pressed to avoid the steel blade that swung towards Cú Chulainn's upper thigh. Normally, in less than a second, the blade would slice through the thin armor and skin like a hot knife through butter, carving a smooth crimson path through muscle and bone before exiting through the other side. Such a blow would be crippling, if not lethal.

However, just as Shirou was far from a normal teenager, Cú Chulainn was far from a normal, and even exceptional, warrior.

Within a half-second, the Irish Hero had capitalized on the opening he had left, thrusting the blood-red spear directly into the hole in his guard.

The razor tip of the spear easily punctured his thin clothing and buried itself deep into the bone of his left shoulder, brutally severing the tendons that formed the junction there.

Shirou valiantly attempted to fight through the hazy pain that clouded his mind, but, with a sudden jerk, Cú Chulainn's cursed spear swept downward, severing the nerves and muscles that allowed him to grasp his sword.

Crying out at the excruciating pain, he dropped his left hand from the hilt, continuing to swing his sword with his right hand in a vain attempt to at least maim his opponent.

Dammit.

He absolutely REFUSED to lose without landing a single good blow on his opponent.

The thin steel blade, traveling in a wide, visible arc, never even made it past the heavily reinforced shaft of Gaé Bolg, careening into the spear a moment later. The impact jarred his weakened right arm harshly, tearing his sword out of the loose grip of his fingers.

An armored, iron boot smashed into his chest with ungodly force, knocking the wind out of him and sending his limp body flying through the air.

His vision grew spotty as precious oxygen was forced out from his lungs, depriving his struggling mind and burning muscles of the resource it needed so desperately.

A few moments, he faintly felt his body crash through the thin wooden door that was the entrance to his shed and heavily impact the concrete wall behind.

He felt so...

Numb?

Indifferent?

Angrily, Shirou shook his head, forcing his taxed mental faculties back into action as tense pressure on his chest was finally relieved, allowing several gulps of life-giving oxygen.

Damn it.

Damn it.

DAMN IT.

He stared, rage and resignation both mixed in his eyes, at his impending doom stroll casually towards him, letting out a disdainful yawn as he approached.

Was he going to die here? Leave all the pain and hard work that he had done to amount to nothing?

Fuck.

It was still too early for him to die, still too little he had accomplished.

A crimson spear, jauntily swung over his foe's shoulder, came ever closer and closer, its razor-sharp tip gleaming in the darkness.

Was this fate? His punishment?

No. Somehow, he knew that this wasn't the end.

It couldn't be.

He needed to live...

If only to pursue and uphold those long broken ideals.

He had promised Kiritsugu Emiya that, at the very least, right?

...

Memories flashed through his tired mind at a lightning pace.

...

_**What am I?**_

...

His first memory.

...

Flames towering high above, cooking the carcasses of the unlucky ones before with a sickening crackle.

...

Walking upon the burnt corpses, the red flames licking at his skin, ignoring the cries of pain and misery.

...

An old crone, with soulless and dull eyes, whispering promises of redemption and a new purpose under the cold night sky.

...

**_I..._**

...

Slamming his long-dulled, nameless sword into the rugged stone skin of the Giant.

...

Firing arrow after arrow into the massive hulk of an ancient Dragon, its pained roars reverberating endlessly within his ears.

...

A look of shock upon the Dark Queen's twisted face as the cursed blade of his pale sword pierced her black heart, forcibly exorcising the darkened soul from the husk of a body.

...

The flames consuming him within the throne of Drangleic, burning his soul with an intensity of a thousand suns.

...

_**I am...**_

...

A dying man, eyes shining with unspilled tears, with ideals so hopelessly impossible, yet so beautiful, that it relit a hope that he had not felt in a lifetime within him.

...

The process began to accelerate, events that had taken place during his life overtaken and eventually exploding outwards into a world of infinity.

Thousands, millions, _billions_ of lifetimes he had never experienced, nor seen, were lain bare to him.

Past.

Present.

Future.

All part of the same, futile current, an enormous inescapable cycle that dragged all, no matter how powerful or unwilling, down its path. The visages that formed within him were familiar, reminiscent, all sharing the same, inescapable ending...

Death.

...

He saw a proud, golden-armoured king, standing upon the tallest tower in a burning city, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he took in the scene of his greatest masterpiece fall into the pits of despair right before his very eyes.

...

A regal, artistic blonde girl, clad in red armor, standing among the flames, merely staring at the burning city around her. She held a broken lyre in her numb hands, too shocked to speak nor act, and only able to watch as her city fell into ruin.

...

A blue-armoured girl with golden hair and piercing emerald eyes, forced to shoulder the burdens of her country at an age far too young, struggling endlessly, alone, to uphold the law of the land and remain true to her ideals, only to watch her kingdom come crumbling down.

...

A man with sweeping black hair, a long trenchcoat billowing from the wind, killing and killing endlessly simply so that a few more could live, a youthful and pure dream corrupted into a monstrous and twisted shade of its former self.

...

A white-haired, heavily tanned man, donned in red and black, alone and forsaken. Clutching onto his two swords as fiercely as he did on his broken and long-rusted ideals, cursed to fight on, misunderstood and forgotten by all, forever.

...

Ah.

He finally understood, didn't he?

His identity.

His purpose.

His reason to remain living.

The words that he had struggled to find within him, to express, for so long finally materialized in his soul.

Even though his breath had run ragged, even though his chest burned with the heat of a thousand suns, even though his entire body screamed in agony as if molten lead ran through it, Shirou let only a single thought consume his entire world, melting away everything else.

...

_**I AM THE BONE OF MY SWORD!**_

...

An anguished scream ripped out of his throat as the entire population of magic circuits within him flared at once at full power, sending sudden, agonizing pain racing violently through the entirety of his body.

Wild, animalistic, primal emotions tore through his body, reigniting the vast population of souls that lay within him.

Normally, the multitude of souls that resided within him were raucous, argumentative, refusing to align themselves fully to his will. A grating cacophony of voices, each competing with each other to be heard.

But in that moment...

In that moment, everything was in harmony.

Everything _was_ harmony.

What was once dissonance became a symphony of variegated, scintillating colors, each soul no longer fighting desperately for dominance but rather melding together in a syncretic blend, in a brilliant song of fire.

It was a song of hope, of light, of joy, unifying all. Powerful waves

An indescribable feeling of happiness overtook him, burgeoning within him at a fantastic rate that surprised even him.

Happiness and joy were subjects that he wasn't very familiar with. They were emotions that seemed alight a roaring fire within him, effusing his body with lightness and strength, like an Estus flask, yet seemed wholly far more potent.

There were few events that had arisen such foreign feelings within him in the many years he spent wandering, and so he cherished those moments like nothing other, for they were few and far between.

This particular case was no exception.

And Shirou, for just a moment, couldn't help smile, his own soul, comprised of twenty-seven magical circuits-not of the best quality, yet still more than the average Magus-joined in the resonating chorus that united peoples of all age, gender, and people.

...

And then suddenly...

...It was all over. The brilliant euphoria, that feeling of pure life and understanding was gone, leaving only the dying embers of hope in the desiccated furnace.

Exhaustion set into his veins, and, his screaming voice dying down, Shirou slumped forwards.

A hazy fog covered his mind, blinding his senses, muffling the stimuli that bombarded from the outside world.

What was this? Death?

Dimly, he could taste the bitter pang of coppery blood in his mouth, feel the crimson liquid pour down his face from his nose, sense the fluid dripping from his wounds.

He snorted, though humor was not evident in the action.

No.

Only bitterness and cynicism remained.

As he lay there, embraced by the white light of the next world, he felt more at peace than he had ever in his entire life.

Rest.

Ah. How he had deserved this, after a lifetime of endless fighting.

A quiet tranquility set itself over him, relaxing his tense muscles and soothing his tired mind.

Rest...

Rest...

Finally at rest...

...

...Until an angelic voice shattered the peaceful illusion around him, and within a second, he was dragged back into cruel reality.

"Are you my Master?"

Shirou's eyelids reluctantly fluttered open, irritated that Cú Chulainn was taking the chance to mock him, even on the verge of death.

And really? Using that sweet, light, kind voice that he knew didn't exist in this barren, vile world? What a total bastard.

Seriously, the hero had no respect for the dead, did he?

With the final vestiges of his willpower, he fought through the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him, forcing open a heavy eyelid.

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Cú Chulainn. I'm dying alrea-"

He was cut off when he took in the sight in front of him, the source of the angel's voice that ripped him away from the illusion of death, his jaw dropping as he gaped at the figure.

Beautiful.

That was the only adjective he could use to describe the...thing in front of him.

No, no, that wasn't even enough. He wasn't even sure if _any _word in his vocabulary (and his vocabulary was very good, mind you) that could describe the impossibility in front of him.

A girl, no more than two or three years older than he was, stood before him. Piercing, charismatic emerald eyes peered curiously into his amber ones, an elegant eyebrow arched in a bemused expression. Her blonde hair was pulled backwards in a utilitarian bun that still maintained beauty and refinement, a few locks that escaped framing her gorgeous face.

Put concisely, she was stunning, in the out-of-this-world kind of way.

"I repeat, I am the Servant Saber of this Holy Grail War. I ask of you again, are you my Master?"

He gaped like a fish. "Wha-wha-?"

She twitched her lips slightly, as if amused at his speechlessness. "I suppose you are unaware of the circumstances of my appearance?"

Wincing slightly at his embarrassing faux pas, he shook his head. "No I am not, m'am. Can you explain later, please? Right now we have to deal with...that."

The woman Saber, raised her left eyebrow in an elegant, and turned towards the blue-armored spearman across the courtyard. An austere mask quickly molding over the more caring and worried look she had given Shirou.

"Servant Lancer, I presume?" Her voice rang across the courtyard, clear and authoritative.

Looking shocked, the spearman nodded slightly, rather humorously mimicking Shirou's own bemused expression.

"Then prepare to meet your death, Lancer. You stand no chance against me. I will do you a favor and end this quickly," she said, dropping down into a classical Western sword stance, grasping some invisible object with both of her hands. "On guard!"

"Ok. What the fuck? What the ACTUAL FUCK? Not only are you a Master than can go toe to toe with a Servant, but you summon what's supposed to be the best of Servant classes too? Why...why the HELL did I get summoned to this war?" the now identified Lancer said in a disbelieving tone, before shaking his fist at the night sky, enraged. "CURSE YOU RANK E LUCK!"

Quietly, as to not be overheard by the man who had tried to kill him twice, Shirou said, "Be careful. I don't know why, but that man claims to be the Irish Hero Cú Chulainn. He's extremely good too, with that spear of his. He has some sort of special unblockable attack, in which he yells the name of the spear Gáe Bolg, and subsequently thrusts it in the direction of the enemy. It seems to-

"I know. Leave this to me, my Master. You will stand no chance against a being such as him." The blonde woman said in a clipped tone. She cringed and turned her face towards him, head inclined slightly, face softening. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a small smile, and she said more kindly, "Thank you."

With that, she departed, clasping an object that seemed to be invisible, although wind currents were visible whipping around it.

Wait...

Wind currents?

Shirou's eyes narrowed. Utilizing wind magic to conceal an object, especially a long-bladed sword that the woman seemed to carry, was by no means an easy feat. It was, in fact, quite impressive magic, as the continual drain on Prana would be quite difficult to maintain over long periods of time.

The blonde stepped forward, her armored boots making a distinctive clack-clack as she moved across the barren ground. The silence was deafening, both combatants circling around each other with a hint of caution.

It was only matter of time before someone lost patience.

The seconds ticked into a minute, the tension in the air only rising, until Lancer finally charged, his crimson spear flashing across the courtyard in a split second.

To Shirou's amazement, his savior was not only managed to respond to the blur that was the spearman, but also able to push him back with relative ease.

With a resounding clang, the spear was knocked back, and, without missing a beat, the so-called 'Saber' pressed the attack, refusing to give Cú Chulainn a moment's respite. Her arms were a blur, moving at a pace that was inhumanly fast, forcing the spearman to retreat.

A slash to the face, followed by a feint to the leg and a kick to the chest.

Thrust. Hack. Parry.

Slash. Dodge. Kick.

An endless cycle of blows that followed no pattern whatsoever, each attack flowing into the next, each counter deflected, each parry twisting into an offensive maneuver.

It was War in its most pure, unadulterated form.

The bout ended suddenly when the blonde woman managed to slip past Cú Chulainn's guard with a parry-turned-thrust, drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek with the invisible, wind-sheathed blade. A second blow managed to clip the Irish Hero's leg as he attempted to counter with a flurry of thrusts.

With a snarl, the Irish Hero leapt jumped towards a hapless, collapsed Shirou, lance raised in a killing blow...

...Only to thrown backwards by a mighty kick the blonde woman sent to his chest, sending Cú Chulainn flying backwards several tens of feet on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Chasing after the spearman, the blonde woman leapt through the air, her hands tightly gripping the wind-hidden sword. Her arms were raised high in the air, muscles tightly coiled and ready to come smashing down upon her unlucky combatant.

A muffled curse was heard briefly before, not a moment later, the blonde woman flew back towards the ground at gravity-defying speed.

The resonating clang of weapons was heard, and the dust cleared moments later, revealing the two fighters locked against one another.

Both of their faces were strained, chests heaving crazily, eyes fierce and competitive. Droplets of sweat decorated their brows as they poured even more strength into the weapons lock, each desiring to push their respective opponent back.

However, even though at first glance they seemed to be equal, it soon became clear who was the stronger of the pair.

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the crimson spear dropped under an invisible pressure, and the spearman was soon forced on his knees. Even from a distance, one could see the coiled muscles of Cú Chulainn tremble under the enormous strength that, paradoxically, came from the rather petite-looking girl above him.

Finally, yielding, the spearman withdrew from the lock and leapt backwards, landing heavily on his feet. The Irish Hero coughed raggedly, several drops of blood leaking from his mouth and dripping slowly onto the ground.

In response, Saber lowered her guard slowly, emerald eyes narrowing speculatively at the large wound inflicted on the blue-armoured man's chest, an injury that seemed at most an hour old.

The two began circling around each other once more, the tension that had broken when the two previously clashed slowly rising once more.

And they rushed each other once more. Their respective weapons collided with each other once more, sending a new shower of sparks flying through the air.

Once more, Shirou was awed by the amount of skill both combatants displayed, even when one party was injured and the other was busy protecting him from possible attacks.

However, it was more than obvious that the blonde woman dictated the course of the battle, constantly pushing back the spearman and forcing him back with every blow.

Damn. He had thought that the _spearman_ was vicious on the offense but...

This woman...

Was on an ENTIRELY different level.

Literally.

Every strike of her sword was conducted with the utmost precision and control, deliberately placed to force the spearman back even more.

Each thrust was performed coldly and calculated, designed to cripple with complete and utter efficiency.

Parries were perfectly executed, intended to throw her opponent off balance, opening up his guard and allowing for a mortal blow to be inflicted.

Not only were the flurry of slashes, thrusts, and parries flawless, the speed of which they were performed was simply incredible.

The two combatants were merely blurs to Shirou's eyes, and although he could follow their movements, he could barely keep u.p

Yet the blonde swordswoman, somehow, kept on increasing the pace, the entirety of her body now simply an incomprehensible storm of armour and blades. The two's clashes became so rapid that it was no longer possible to distinguish one blow from the next; rather, one could only hear the continuous sound of metal upon metal, brilliant sparks erupting after each bout.

However, it was not to last.

All three present, including knew that the blonde, blue-armored girl would eventually win. Her movements were simply to rapid and too powerful for the previously-wounded spearman to keep up, and every attempt to slay Shirou was not only thwarted, but also wound up getting utilized against the Irish Hero in one way or another.

And so, realizing this, Cú Chulainn used his trump card.

Suddenly, the Irish Hero leapt backwards far into the air, his crimson spear glowing brilliantly in the darkness of night as numerous magical energies pooled at its razor-sharp tip.

A voice, tinged with desperation, cried out into the night.

"GÁE BO-"

"Strike Air...HAMMER OF THE WIND KING!"

A clear voice rang out like church bells through the night's still air, regal and magnificent, as if it came from the voice of a great monarch.

It was so resonating and powerful, carrying so much presence, that Shirou was hard-pressed to believe it came from Saber's mouth.

A blade of concentrated wind, barely visible to the naked eye in the inky blackness, flew from Saber's sword, smashing directly into the iron pauldrons that covered Cú Chulainn's stomach.

A flash of gold-Saber's weapon, Shirou noted with interest-was visible for a split second before it was resheathed nigh-instantaneously by the multitude of wind currents.

"ARGH!"

The blue-armored man flew through the air, propelled by the massive force that had struck him in the torso. He barely managed to right himself before smashing into the wall that covered the expanse of the Emiya Mansion.

Silence reigned for a few moments, before the distinctive click-clack of Saber's boots on the ground resonated throughout the ruined courtyard.

Cautiously, Shirou also advanced, using the very last vestiges of his Prana to conjure a Reinforced leaf-bladed shortsword.

While he was in no condition to fight the spearman, he was confident that he could buy himself enough time for the blonde to come to his aid.

Although he probably couldn't buy a lot of time...

...The blonde woman Saber moved _really_ _damn_ fast.

An invisible wind suddenly whipped throughout the courtyard, immediately clearing the debris and dust that filled the air, rendering the scene visible to those within it.

In front of the crumpled form of the spearman, who was still clutching his crimson spear, stood the blonde woman, the invisible sword clutched in her right hand pointed straight at him.

Overall, she cut an imposing figure, and, with her dragon-like armor and skill as a swordswoman, would be able to easily cow the bravest of men into submission.

But perhaps the most intimidating thing was the look on her face.

Cold, austere, and dispassionate.

Ruthlessness with duty.

It was almost as if the woman had killed so many that she was forced to don that persona as her one shield against insanity. Forced to slay endlessly for the good of her people, all the while blamed for the carnage wrought.

In that very moment, looking at the visage of Saber poised over the defeated body of her enemy with her sword raised high and that remorseless, ruthless mask on her face, Shirou could only think of a phrase he heard long ago...

**Only in death does duty end.**

"You have lost, Hound of Ulster. Rejoice, for you have lost honorably, and I will grant you a quick, merciful death," the woman 'Saber' said, lifting her sword high in the air in an executioner's stance. "You were a worthy opponent."

Cú Chulainn forced himself up to his knees, blood dripping from his multiple wounds and onto the ground. He coughed harshly, sticky mixtures of mucus and blood erupting from his mouth and onto the ground.

"Hey Saber?"

The blond woman's eyebrows narrowed slightly. "What is it, Lancer? Last words?"

THe Irish Hero smiled weakly. "Can't I call a tactical retreat?"

Saber snarled. "Don't even dream of-HEY!"

Faster than the human could see, the spearman fled, scaling the wall in a split second and disappearing into the inky blackness of the night.

"Damn it." Shirou cursed, slamming his fist into the ruined wall of the compound.

"I am sorry, Master. My carelessness led to his successful escape." the blonde shamefully, bowing her head. "Next time I will make sure that he doesn't escape."

"Its not your fault, Saber. I should've actually hel-GAH!"

Without warning, he cried out, falling to floor. Gritting his teeth, he clutched his ruined left shoulder, blood pouring through the gaps of his fingers.

Damn.

It seemed as if the bleeding hadn't stopped yet.

"Master! Are you all right?" the blonde woman cried out, quickly rushing over to his side. "You seem to be injured

Biting his lip tightly, he forced himself upwards onto one knee. "I'm fine, Saber. Just get me back to the shed over there, and I can heal up."

"You are heavily injured, Master. Don't move too much. I will attempt t-"

She suddenly stopped, head cocked towards the sky. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her hands clasped her sword tightly once more.

"Master, there are intruders on the grounds. One of them is a Servant, the other a Magus, probably its Master. Stay here while I deal with them."

Shirou frowned. He felt the intrusions as well, yet one of them seemed rather familiar...

His eyes widened in sudden recognition. He hurriedly turned towards where the blonde woman had been standing frantically.

'Wait!"

But he was too late. Saber had already leapt off into the night, headed straight towards the intruders' presences, one of which he recognized as one Rin Tohsaka.

Cursing, he sprinted towards his shed, ignoring the agonizing protests of his body. Careening through the remnants of the shattered door, he threw open an inconspicuous locker that lay hidden behind a pile of random junk.

Inside, a brilliant golden light gleamed, exuded from four golden flasks and a beautiful, ornate, otherworldly scabbard.

Without wasting a moment of time, he grabbed the closest golden bottle, chugging its contents in one go.

The change was instantaneous. Within a second, Shirou could feel his multiple wounds close up and the tiredness that clouded his mind driven away by a sweeping energy.

Such was the power of **Estus**, a potent magical liquid that restored both health and stamina. The fact that the flasks he carried could be refilled by Avalon, the lost sheath of King Arthur that contained inherent healing properties, made their use both convenient, and, Shirou had to admit, somewhat of a handicap, as he had begun to take their usefulness for granted.

Shrugging off the last vestiges of weariness from his body, he Reinforced his legs with Prana and jumped, propelling himself high into the night sky.

Soaring through the air, he arrived at the scene below just to see Saber slash at the white-haired man in red and black Cú Chulainn had been fighting earlier, shattering one of his twin blades with unnatural ease.

The invisible blade continued its path, as the force behind it was incredibly strong, and carved a deep bloody furrow into the man's chest.

As the man fell away, the blonde armored woman moved on towards a panicked twin-tailed Magus futilely firing black orbs from the tip of her finger.

Mustering his Prana reserves, he shot forward like a bullet directly at the two young women below, Tracing a shield he had looted from the corpse of one of his first great enemies: The Pursuer.

The shield of The Pursuer was not a glorious or flaunting one; on the contrary, it was a rather plain shield with only a few visible distinctive traits.

One of these traits was the existence of twin indents, directly opposite from one another, that made up the sides of the shield. A skilled warrior would catch a blade in these manmade chasms, and, with a strong twist of their arms, snap the blade in two, rendering their opponent hapless.

Another unique trait was the presence of faint etchings on the shield, long worn from continued use and the scratches made from weapons on its surface. The tracings on the shield made up a sun, reminiscent of a dying kingdom.

However, neither of the features above were the shield's defining characteristic.

No. Definitely not.

The shield's most prominent feature was its...

Sheer.

Fucking.

Size.

The Pursuer was a hateful wraith, encased in a simple enormous suit of armor over **fifteen feet **tall, easily towering over normal humans. The shield itself was a full _eight_ feet tall and _five_ feet in width, and well over a _foot_ in depth.

In short, it was a massive shield that, in the right hands, could easily halt the mighty claws of a grown dragon in its tracks.

However, Shirou simply did not have the proper height nor weight to use it, nor could the sheer strength of Saber be discounted in any way.

Within a split second of fully Tracing the Pursuer's Greatshield, he crashed into the ground, the face of the shield pointed towards the girl called Saber.

He arrived not a moment too soon.

The invisible blade the Saber wielded smashed into Shirou's Traced shield with ungodly force, sending him skidding backwards...

...Right into the bosom of one very surprised, very annoyed, and a soon very flustered Rin Tohsaka.

A few frantic apologies and awkward shufflings later (seriously, he really DIDN'T mean for his face to be implanted between Rin's two...jiggly things), Shirou stood in front of the other Master, shield hefted, facing an irked blonde swordswoman.

"What are you doing Master?" the blonde woman cried out in disbelief. "She's an ene-"

"She's my classmate, Saber," he said wearily. "A classmate that just so happens to be a Magus."

All he got for his efforts was a steely glare from Saber. "She's another Master! She could easily cripple you or even kill you right now, with your back exposed!"

Man, she took this way too seriously, didn't she? It wasn't liked Magi killed people on a whim...well, at least the sane ones.

"That may be so, but I do not condone the slaying of those who have yet to commit an evil, even if they have the capability of doing so," Shirou said firmly, refusing to back down from the small, yet extremely intimidating, young woman in front of him. "If you wish to kill her, you must first incapacitate me."

The blonde woman gritted her teeth in frustration, seemingly vexed at the his morally correct, if somewhat risky, decision.

Yet something panged in her heart, a small, tiny feeling that she wanted to crush so badly. The feeling...

Had she found a kindred spirit? Someone who shared the oh-so-heavy burdens that she had borne, shared the same idealistic dream?

"Fine," she spat out, lowering her sword slightly. "But I warn you now, Master, that this will do us no good in the long run."

Shirou smiled brightly, pleased at her response, reluctant though it was. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement, Saber."

He turned, only to meet the sickly-sweet visage of Rin Tohsaka, malice coming off of the school idol in thick black waves.

Oh, SHIT!

"Now, now Emiya-kun." While her voice remained light and pleasant, the underlying emotions were that of extreme annoyance and anger. "I never knew you were a Magus. Care to explain why after I save your worthless hide, you go along and summon the best Servant in the War, stealing what is undoubtedly, rightfully, mine? And leaving me with possibly the most sassy and useless Servant to ever be summoned for the Holy Grail War?"

The grumblings of a certain wounded Archer went unnoticed by all parties.

Shirou gulped, unwilling to face the wrath of a very pissed-off woman that just happened to be the school idol.

God fucking dammit.

The quality of his school life was going to suddenly plummet drastically, from average to living hell.

All Tohsaka had to do was drop a hint to her zealot followers and...

He could only shudder at the possible acts that the crazed fans of Rin Tohsaka would do to him.

A few seconds passed as he stuttered, trying to offer a somewhat acceptable response that would satisfy the black-haired woman in front of him, (not to somehow placate the rather vexed blonde behind him) and save himself from getting torn a new one by both women...

...Until he properly registered Tohsaka's words.

"Wait...you were the one who saved me?" Shirou gasped, in shock and realization, genuinely touched that she, a mere acquaintance-and a Magus at that-would use a decade's worth of Prana to save his life.

If he were asked a just a few hours before, he would've never believed a Magus would save an acquaintance's life, let alone a near stranger's.

Smiling gratefully, he handed the heart-shaped red pendant to her. "Thank you, Tohsaka-san. I owe you my life. If I can repay you somehow, I'll be more than happy to help."

In response, Tohsaka flushed an even darker red, which seemed nigh-impossible, her anger increasing exponentially.

It was anger of course, right? It obviously couldn't be anything else other than that.

The twin-tailed Magus suddenly cleared her throat, the-angry?- flush on her face rapidly disappearing. "O-Of course, Emiya-kun. Your thanks is acknowledged and appreciated. It was only my duty as the Second Owner of the city to keep innocents out of the War. Although in hindsight, it was the stupidest thing I've done."

Shirou pretended not to hear the last part, and, restraining Saber from decapitating the female Magus, continued. "Nevertheless, Tohsaka-san, you saved my life, and utilized a precious resource to do so."

Rin just grumbled, "Just keep the damn pendant, Emiya-kun, as a reminder that you owe me a favor. A lot of them in fact."

He grinned. "I'll keep that in mind, Tohsaka."

She huffed and looked away, the faint flush of anger still not fading away from her cheeks

The amber-eyed boy simply maintained his serene smile, while secretly wondering why the school idol was so angry all the time.

Surely he wasn't _that _bad, right?

Wincing, he shook his head.

Never mind, he probably was. He would never be able to understand women.

"Anyways, Emiya-kun, do you even know whats going on?"

Shirou shrugged. "The spearman who tried to kill me said something about a Holy Grail and Servants and Masters, or something along the like. Not sure what that means but..."

Rin sighed. "We're going to be here for a long time. As my duty as the Second Owner of Fuyuki City, even if you are my rival Master, I must inform you of the competition that you seem to have been forcibly enlisted into."

"Sure," he shrugged. "But not outside, ok? Lets go inside, and I'll serve everyone some tea, alright? Its freezing, I'm thirsty, and I need to take care of..."

He gestured to the devastation that littered the courtyard. "This, anyhow."

"Now, now. How do I know this isn't a ploy to kill me, Emiya-kun?" she asked, voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. "If you're stupid enough to think you can trick _me_ into going into the house of another Magus whom I am not well-acquainted with, then I will waste no time explaining to you the rules of the War."

Rolling his eyes, Shirou lifted his hands in a movement pantomiming that of surrender. "I swear, you Magi are all paranoid freaks. Look, Tohsaka-san, I'm going to tell you I'm probably the most abnormal magician you'll ever see. For example, what Magi in their right mind would make their Workshop in a gardening shed? Now, I swear on my pride as a Magus that I will not try to intentionally harm a single hair on your head when we go inside. That enough for you?'

The twin-tailed Magus refused to move, a single elegant black eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to say "really?" "If your own Workshop is a shed, I doubt you'd have any pride as a Magus to begin with..."

Shirou sighed.

Damn Magi and their excessively paranoid natures.

"Fine, fine Tohsaka. Saber and I will walk in front of you, our backs exposed, and you can shoot us with those nifty black curses of yours if we so dare move in a manner belying attack, ok?"

"Master!" Saber cried indignantly. "Are you crazy? She could-"

"I know, Saber," he said tiredly. "But I'm almost certain you could intercept the projectile right instantly and immediately retaliate. I'm sure Tohsaka knows she doesn't stand a chance against you. Plus..."

Shirou looked back at the female Magus, and smiled slightly. "I do trust her, to a certain extent. She _did _save my life."

Still grumbling, Saber sheathed her invisible sword, but not more delivering a stern warning coupled with a frightful glare at the suspicious Magus. "If you so DARE harm a hair on my Master's hea-"

"Please don't call me Master. That sounds like some sort of sexual fetish thing, but I'm not into that type of stuff, even if you are. It's just Shirou," he commented offhandedly. Glancing at quivering Tohsaka, he added, "And I think she gets the memo. Look, she's literally shaking in her clothing."

The two women immediately stopped their silent combat engaged through sheer intimidation factor, of which Saber was dominating, and silently agreed to join forces...

...Against Shirou.

He gulped as he felt the freezing gaze of Saber lock onto him in conjunction with the fiery one of Rin. The sensation was akin to his blood being boiled, and subsequently frozen to subzero temperatures, then reheated to boiling point, frozen yet again, and so forth.

Damn.

He was so.

Irrevocably.

Screwed.

"Yep! Anyways, lets get to the house! I'll make some tea for everyoooooooooooooooonnnnneee!" he called behind his back as he hurriedly fled from the wrath of the pair and into the heavily damaged house.

The two women stared at the rapidly disappearing form of Shirou as he retreated into the holy sanctuary of the kitchen, and shrugged.

They would get their payback later.

* * *

><p><span><em>Interlude...<em>

_Shirou Emiya can be considered one of the great Magus anomalies of the third millennium. He was a completely unknown person to the Association and other Magus Organizations, although he was the heir to the infamous "Magus Killer" Kiritsugu Emiya, until the beginning of the Fifth Holy Grail War in Fuyuki City that took place in 2008 C.E.. Even with his late introduction to Magus society, he eventually rose to the rank as the Chairman of the Unified Nations Association and leader of the Global Conference of Magus Cooperation in the span of a mere fifteen years._

_His greatest achievement was the single-handed defeat of the Dark Council and its multitude of allies in the Siege of __Carn Dûm__, eradicating the fully corrupted True Ancestors and Apostle Ancestors along with the manifestation of Angra Mainyu. Emiya reportedly killed over three thousand Dark Creatures by his account; however, present-day historians concur that this figure was a conservative estimate, and believe the figure is closer to ten thousand._

_Finally, and most controversially, it has been rumored that Emiya, along with his consorts, have been the only people to reach the Root of Akasha in the entire history of mankind. This rumor, however, has not ever been confirmed, and remains heavily debated even today._

_Emiya's Prana levels were unbelievably high. It was later revealed in his book __In Remembrance of a Dying Land__ that he had received an enormous Prana boost due to his massive acquisition of souls during his journey in the land of Drangleic, which, in 3256 C.E., was discovered by the great space explorer Frederick Ashton and is now Sector 7 of the Epsilon-Theta system. Refer to Systems of the Galactic Republic to read on Drangleic's unique natural "kingdom cycle," its odd 'slowed' time cycle, and its famed Undead Curse_

_However, it is important to note that Emiya's Prana levels were not the highest amongst those of his contemporaries. For example, the Church Executor Ciel, born Elesia, had a maximum Prana output of over four thousand units, outstripping Emiya's maximum levels by a not insignificant five hundred units of Prana._

_What enabled Emiya to surpass Ciel and few other Magi who outranked him in terms of Prana output was his multitude of other skill and traits, including but not limited to: adaptability, empathy, marksmanship, mental strength, swordplay, martial arts, carpentry, mechanics, among other things, and, surprisingly, cooking. (Refer to page 1743 for details on the 'Great Cooking Assassination Affair of 2026')._

_Below are Emiya's basic numeric power levels, measured during late 2033:_

_Number of Souls: 683,751 (Eighty five percent harvested in Drangleic, fifteen percent from the Siege of Carn Dûm)_

_Average Number of Circuits per Soul: 18_

_Average Prana Output per Circuit: 0.00029 units_

_Total Prana Output: 3569.18 units_

_While it remains true that Emiya's Prana output was in the ninety ninth percentile, one must remember that it was a combination of such raw strength, intelligence, and willpower that enabled Emiya to succeed. Later in his life, Emiya often stated that his success stemmed mostly from his guile and his will, rather than his raw power, likening his situation to a country with unlimited access to nuclear weapons. _

_"If the country uses the weapons recklessly, petulantly, like a child controlled by its whims and woes, its power will eventually turn in on itself and destroy the country from within. If the country uses the weapons wisely, however, endless rewards will be reaped in, time and time again."_

_-Cornelia Atkinson, The Great Magi, PUB 4268 C.E._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I was actually going to add the Church Scene, but I thought the chapter ended nicely enough, and the chapter was getting insanely long.<strong>

**I understand that the Pursuer isn't a super strong boss once you progress well enough into the game, but taking him on as a newbie without using those handy ballistae in the back is really difficult. I also slightly exaggerated the Pursuer's size, as he's more likely around twelve to fourteen feet in height when not floating.**

**The ship(s) is really obvious. If you don't know what it is, I'm gonna cry for you. Like really.**

**Next, Shirou does have a few other things up his sleeve, so do wait for it. Mxthomas, the _other _item that Shirou has won't be debuted until the next chapter...sorry. I DID give a hint, though.**

**On another note, I can't wait for UBW season 2. And I have to wait four more painful months for it. Grrr.**

**"Only in death does duty end," comes from Warhammer 40,000.**

**Carn Dúm is the capital of Angmar from Middle Earth.**

**Also I'm thinking of starting a few other fics. Contact me if you want to have a specific anime, manga, book, game, or comic series written. I'll at least take in consideration, cause I really love writing (though I'm not that good at it).**


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